Drumknott's Pencil
by Blood Dark Sun
Summary: Drumknott strikes an unusual bargain with Moist in order to keep his pencil safe. Can the con man stick to the deal?


**Drumknott's Pencil.**

"Another beautiful Ankh-Morpork day," Moist sighed to himself, striding out the little side door of the bank. People were queuing for something – he didn't know or care what – and he had planned to take a little stroll through the city, keeping his ears alert for any gossip or news that might affect his position. Spike was off taking some of the Umnian golem horses to various clacks towers, and wouldn't be back for several weeks. Moist was bored and seeking excitement.

In his nondescript black suit, he passed through the crowds with a vague, unfocused smile on his face, and no one bothered him.

Until the Patrician's coach appeared before him. The coachman dismounted and held the door open. "Good morning, Mr. Lipwig. His Lordship would like to see you."

Moist raised his eyebrows. The coachman was getting good. He used to drive right past! Now he could spot Moist in a crowd. His nerves began tingling. He was beginning to be _recognized!_

Mindful of some of the bad things that had happened to him in coaches, he first peeked his head inside to ensure that this really was the Patrician's coach. Inside, a lack of Vetinari, but his uptight secretary, Rufus Drumknott, sat primly on the seat, a leather folio on his lap.

Moist looked him over. As always, very somberly dressed in a grey suit similar to Moist's, but somehow seeming much stuffier. And in the breast pocket? A silver pencil, gleaming brightly against the dark fabric like a taunt. He grinned. Drumknott wanted a game? Moist would give him a game.

He climbed into the coach. "Mr. Drumknott," he said pleasantly. "How are you?"

"Fine. I am merely carrying out his Lordship's orders." Even the secretary's voice was prim. He gave Moist a rather pathetic look. "Might I please request that you not attempt to take this pencil from me?" He gestured towards his breast pocket. "It was a service gift."

Inwardly, Moist began to laugh. Poor little Drumknott and his poor little pencil mania! Well, he'd leave the man's pencil alone. But not without conditions. "Mr. Drumknott, you and I both know that I have a habit of taking your pencils." The secretary nodded sadly, and Moist went on, "However, I'm willing to abstain from swiping that sparkling silver service gift, on one condition." He paused dramatically.

When he failed to speak, Drumknott unpursed his lips and asked, "What is the condition?"

Moist's mind was busy running through a litany of humiliating acts that he could ask Drumknott to – "Kiss me," he blurted out, before he'd gotten to the end of the list. _What?_ Why on earth would he have said that?

But the expression on Drumknott's face was hilarious, and Moist had to fight not to laugh. The uptight, staid, boring and by-the-book secretary was in a flap. Before Moist could speak further, Drumknott cleared his throat. "Th-that's it? And after that, you'll leave my pencil alone? No trying to steal it?"

"I give you my word of honor."

"As a totally devious and untrustworthy man."

Moist nodded with a smile. That was all he had. He leaned back in the seat and tried to figure out the best way to take that pencil; once Drumknott realized he couldn't make himself do it –

But the secretary was leaning forward with a nervous expression on his face. Was he seriously going to attempt the kiss? Moist held himself perfectly still, just to see what would happen. Drumknott must know that if he actually kissed Moist, here in his Lordship's coach (_ack! In Vetinari's coach!_), he'd be open to future blackmail?

Before Moist's thoughts went further, the secretary closed his eyes and pressed their lips together; the Postmaster found himself shocked into the first kiss of his life that didn't taste of ashtray, and he reflexively kissed back. Drumknott's lips were warm and soft, and he kissed quite well! This…now, _this_ was flying! Stunned beyond reaction, Moist did the only thing he could possibly do, in the circumstances, and reached out to pull Drumknott closer.

Moments later (seconds? minutes?) the coach bumped to a stop, and Drumknott drew back from Moist without a word. His expression was the same as always, neutral and controlled - or was he concealing a smirk? By contrast Moist was a mess inside. Drumknott – _Drumknott!_ – he'd just – and Moist had –and he'd _enjoyed _– and then – ack! Spike! – what if – _double ack! _ _In Vetinari's coach!_ – and now he had to go inside and act normal in front of the Patrician and Drumknott, too. His mind was in chaos and he wanted to bite his fist, but the coachman was standing there smiling at him as he held the door open.

Drumknott exited the coach first and walked into the Palace without waiting for Moist to catch up. The Postmaster stepped out of the coach, tugged his jacket down, and took a deep breath, watching the secretary recede into the distance. He'd get through this meeting with Vetinari all right. He had to. And then he'd go hide in the gold vault for a couple of million eons, until he calmed down.

Moist glanced down at his hand. Like a saucy little talisman, giving him strength, Drumknott's silver pencil gleamed up at him. He smiled, tucking it into his own breast pocket, and strode into the palace.

…

_My guess is that Moist will use the pencil as leverage for secret kissing sessions with Drumknott. Vetinari will no doubt find out about this little liaison, and at some point in the far future he'll trot it out to humiliate Moist and/or make him do something he doesn't want to do._


End file.
